A Place in the Sun

The Hotter’n Hell Hundred rolls riders through one of the bleakest, most godforsaken landscapes imaginable—at a time of year when temperatures regularly top 100 degrees. Why on earth do so many people want to ride it?

THIS IS THE SUN: Approaching noon, it’s a fierce, glowing orb that hovers high in the clear blue sky amid a scattering of wispy, white clouds—the world’s biggest heat lamp. The temperature is 93 degrees, and the hottest part of the day is yet to come. Gusts of wind exceed 25 mph.

A flatbed trailer operating as a sag wagon rumbles past Shim and me, filled with the sad faces of defeated cyclists. Weary riders congregate at an I-44 rest stop under the blessed shade of a grove of live oaks and spray their salt-encrusted faces with the precious few ounces remaining in their water bottles. Shim and I swap pulls into the unforgiving headwind, intermittently dropping each other as our legs start to give way. After an eternal 45 minutes, we veer left onto Missile Road, headed toward Sheppard Air Force Base and the final few miles.

The wind recedes and our moods brighten. Cyclists pose in front of the World War II bombers on display, grinning broadly. Shim and I spin softly, soaking in the ride’s end. Then, ahead, a tunnel of uniformed airmen appears. They’re lining both sides of the road, cheering, clapping, and offering up high fives. Shim screams, “IANNN!” (but pronouncing it YAN), and hands me his camera. He sprints through the gauntlet of soldiers as if he’s winning the final, fan-lined meters of a Tour de France climb, slapping hands, screaming.

At the finish, a volunteer drapes a medal around my neck, one of the 14,000 ordered. I say good-bye to Shim and contemplate retreating to my comfortable accommodations with local residents Linda and Don Knox, who have opened their home and hearts to Hotter’n Hell riders for years. But instead I order one of the 36-ounce beers I see other cyclists sipping and listen to the Kris Lager Band, a Black Keys-esque blues-rock act performing at the hospitality tent.

Eventually I find the bottom of my beer cup, and again begin to contemplate the question of why. What’s behind this ride’s uncanny allure?

I overhear one finisher suggest they rename the event Windier’n Hell. Another finisher refers to the current temp of 96 as “cool” compared to last year’s nearly 110-degree heat. I hear groans, and laughter. A woman who is wobbling as she walks alongside her bicycle proudly says, “I earned this medal.” I think about my dad, and how he instilled in me a love for cycling, even in Texas heat.

Everyone is nodding and smiling and exchanging exhausted, knowing looks. I remembered what Shim said: So many people. Of course. He wasn’t complaining about the crowds—he was drawn to them, to the idea of being part of something bigger, a shared experience.

The popularity of Hotter’n Hell is part of what makes it so popular. And for many people this ride is their Everest, and the volunteers are their Sherpas. It's a journey entirely dependent on community. There's no way this many people could do this alone. The rock band's guitarist jams along with the bassist. I slam my empty beer upon the table. All these people, they draw strength from the notion that they are doing something really hard, but they are all in it together. Wonder where they got that idea.